Endless Silence
by Kat J
Summary: A short fic about Jason.


  
  


Jason loved being a father and he was good at it. He was a proud Dad, elated with the baby boy that was handed over to him when his mother was too frightened to touch him. He would have given up his life for his rosy cheeked newborn. Would have done anything to make him happy and in the end he stuck to his promise.   
  


Michael had a reddish glow of hair and eyes so blue they seemed almost like star sapphires shimmering against the sun. People told him all the time what a beautiful baby he was and Jason would smile and nod and not really understand why is was their place to say it; why he didn't mind hearing it and why it made his heart swell. The thrill of it was better than riding the cliff road so fast the wind nipped his cheeks and for so long, he ran out of gas.  
  


The boy had brought a new set of responsibilities to the Mob enforcer. He hadn't known his heart would open wide and accept Michael as his own. He hadn't known that the boy would feel the same and give to him a love so open and without question. He didn't know how it would feel to have the infant cuddled against his chest while he slept soundlessly. But then one day, he just knew. The first time he picked up his son, their was such an intense connection, he couldn't understand it. The way the little baby curled his body against Jason and gurgled made him understand the word love.   
  


There was nothing but innocence in his son's eyes, not the same as he'd had when he first woke up after the accident, but a challenging, new sort of emotion; vulnerability   
  


There was such incredible trust the first time Michael reached up and grabbed Jason's thumb in his tiny hand and squeezed. Even then, the child knew who his father was. Somehow Jason knew exactly what Michael needed: food, a diaper change, a warm bath, soft words before bed, strong hands to make him feel secure. No one had to tell him, he just knew.  
  


By the time Michael was six-months old, he and Jason had their routine perfected, like a silent ballet. Slow pirouettes were made in the kitchen when warming a bottle, while Michael cried softly onto his father's shoulder. At bedtime Jason cradled the baby close to his chest, rocking on soundless notes and gazing out at the city. The lights streaked red and white, blurring far past the harbour. It was all amazing and every last detail he explained to Michael.  
  


He used to read to him like he was a poet espousing the words of travellers from all over the world. He used inflections in his voice and made the words come out like a dream. They weren't merely travel books to Jason, but a milieu of language on paper. He opened that world up for Michael; showed him the value of knowledge and experience.   
  


Nothing would compare, they thought, to the night they stayed up until dawn while Michael whimpered and shook with the pain from teething. The awe and wonder that came when he cut his first tooth washed away the fear and uncertainty in an instant.   
  


Jason had been wrong.  
  


While that night was filled with worry and tense moments, it could never compare to the day he gave up his son. Though he barely showed his emotions as he handed the child to his rightful father, inside his heart was breaking. The pieces steadily clogged his throat and made it hard for him to speak; made it impossible to say goodbye. So he kissed the top of his son's head where the red tufts of hair were the softest and whispered his goodbye. Rushing out of the mansion before he heard the wails of his sweet baby boy, Jason rode his bike for the first time since he'd taken Michael home. He was reckless as he drove the cliff rode while tears blurred his vision.   
  


He'd never forget that day.  
  


He doesn't put hope in the risk, the thrill of dying anymore, because inside he dies a little more everyday. He had a taste of shimmering silver happiness and had to give it up and now he can't seem to grasp anything good. Everything slips through his fingers like frigid water, stinging his skin and making it a little harder to breathe.   
  


He didn't understand how silence could deafen until the day he walked into the room of his sweet young son and heard no laughter, no sweet gurgling sounds, just silence.   
  


Endless silence.   
  


He was a father at a time when people questioned his ability to take care of himself, let alone a helpless child. Now he thinks back and wonders himself how he did it. 

There are reminders everywhere. The child-proofed outlets all over the penthouse. The safety box that stores his gun. The small pair of slippers that are stashed way in the back of the closet. The haunting smell of the baby blanket, he carried Michael home in, lingers still, even though it's been years since his baby boy had been wrapped in it. Though he tried to throw it away every time he'd find it, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't give it away either.   
  


The material is warn. It's soft and fuzzy and a dingy yellow with blue trim. When Jason closes his eyes, he can almost see Michael like he was years ago, small and soft and in his arms. But then he opens his eyes and he is alone. He pulls it to his face and breathes it in; cherishes it. The soft material rubs his skin, drying the moisture that lay cradled against his cheek.   
  


And he's still cold and a killer, but for those few minutes when he thinks of his son, he is soft and loved. He wishes he allowed himself more of those moments, but he can't. Not when he is uncle Jason and Michael calls another man Daddy  
  


He wishes he could go back for just a moment to a time when a travel book was the solution to a sleepless night, when the thought of his son was a comfort and not a cause for heartache.  
  


His heart was once so warm, so loving, now it's barely tepid. It beats. It pumps blood through his system, but it doesn't feel, not real emotions; he won't let it. He's too scared to love again, to let anyone that close again.   
  


Not in a holster, but in the back of his faded blue jeans, he carries a heavy steel gun, concealed only by the black leather jacket he wears day after day and it's as if he's mourning. As if he's waiting to pull out that sleek metal and put it to use, because it's the only thing that keeps him sane. He doesn't need to kill, it's not a thirst, not a desire embedded in his being, but it is the only thing that seems to make the pain go away. For those few seconds after he's pulled the trigger everything in him is pumped and warm and for those precious seconds, he is alive.  
  


When he sinks into bed at night, naked save for the purple-blue bruises that cover his ribs and cheek; battle scars from yet another bar fight, he thinks of his son. The sweet red-headed angel that gave him a reason to live and hope. He knows it's all been stripped away and he's sick of the platitudes people use to explain his heartache away. Sick of the way they talk down to him and treat him like he's the child. But the thought of Michael always sobers him.   
  


And there's one word that still hurts worse than any torture, any bullet hole or broken bone. Just one word: Daddy.  
  


The end  
  


Please review and share your thoughts. :)

I disclaim. 


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